She walked in the nail salon
as I sat on my throne,
a kind young man at my feet,

and he and I both looked up
at the one so pregnant
who’d come for the same kind

of pampering my old feet were
gratefully receiving, thanks to
Eric’s masterful massage.

Two women came to stand
by her, one putting a gentle hand
over the babe inside: “How long?”

“A month,” said the mom-to-be.
And I smiled—about a month
away from my own birthday.

As she waddled to her own
throne, it hit me: This was you
68 summers ago, waiting for me.

She has your raven hair, this lady
in waiting, though her face is the color
of coffee with cream while yours

was vanilla milkshake. But I see you
as I have not, weighted with child
and impending responsibilities,

mixed with how-will-I-do-this?
fears, which every parent must have.
I wouldn’t know; I chickened out.

Now it’s June, and while today is
a mild one with a sweet breeze, heat
will come, and a baby. But now

one foot soaks in warm water as
one of her heavier-than-usual calves
is kneaded by a woman with strong

hands and her own children at home—
one who knows. And I wish that you
could’ve had pedicures in 1958—

it took you another half century
to allow such hands-on healing
masked as luxury.

We wish her well with this little
one, don’t we? An easy delivery,
if there is such a thing,

and a baby, unlike me, without
colic, who sleeps easily and long,
and a someone or two

with helping hands that can,
now and again, rub a mother’s
weary feet and calves, painting

pretty pink polka dots
on her toes to remind her
just how much she is loved.